


Fire On the Mountain

by Potterology



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Romance, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-03-04 01:29:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2904293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Potterology/pseuds/Potterology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"No. It was my choice and given the chance, I would do nothing differently." And still, there is the bitter thought - a lifetime spent in the light of Thranduil, given as payment for the love of a Dwarf and all without the knowledge of whether it was real or simply a passing intimacy." - The Battle of the Five Armies is over; the Battle for Middle Earth is about to begin. A fresh evil breeds in the fires of Mordor, Saruman having fallen under its spell; a new King is crowned, taking charge of the Eorlingas in the southern Kingdom of Rohan; and Fili, one of the last in the line of Durin, takes the throne of Erebor.  Kiliel. WIP. T. Set in the between times of BOFA and the War of the Ring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. How I Live Now

She says nothing for a long time, watching the negotiations with a sharp eye and hands clasped behind her back. It is not going well. Thorin, Son of Durin, has passed thorough the halls of Mandos, his heir Fili having taken the throne and the Arkenstone, and claimed the loyalty of the Seven Dwarf Kingdoms; though not, apparently, to the relief of everyone. Bard keeps his requests to the minimum of only what was needed for the people of Dale to rebuild the city. Dain requested that the people of the Ironhills be given a place within Erebor. Thranduil makes lengthy recommendations, condemns the reign of Durin's Folk, demands the White Gems as recompense for the deaths of his people and his time. All is given, with gratitude and the grace of royalty. But it is trade which stems the flow of friendship.

Dale will not sever the Mirkwood bond, the allowances the Elves give for them to hunt and roam freely across their borders too precious, and the Elven King will not see the Dwarves prosper on what he perceives as the backs of his people's dead. _You have taken the Mountain, your halls are bleeding with gold, buy your own paths._

Kili sits to the right of his brother, head almost in his hands. Were it not for her presence in the shadowed corner, his eyes drifting now and then to her concealed figure, he might have fallen asleep when Bard threatened to leave all together. The shouts become louder, more insistent, angrier as Dain scoffs at Thranduil's demands and the elf grows indignant at Bard's suggestion of open trade with both Mirkwood and Erebor. Rolling his eyes, he shoots her a tiny grin and shakes his head. Tauriel has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing.

"We have given you what you desire, Lord Elf, I see no reason for more hatred to breed between our people. Let us have peace and prosper side by side." Fili's voice echoes in the hall, cutting across Dain and Bard's increasing bickering and Kili's smile. They are not weak men, not shallow or arrogant, but they are proud and bitterness grows in the most patient ways. Thranduil freezes, face hardening, and her amusement dies. She knows that look. Remembers the fierceness of it, six hundred years of life and the fire in the King's eyes has always stayed with her from the first moment she saw it - when the Queen was told to be missing, dead, in the dungeons of Gundabad.

"Peace? No, Master Dwarf, peace was never an option." He stands in a swift movement, with a grace few have ever emulated; when he sweeps past her, she moves to follow, a sorry look spared for Kili and his face falls for a moment, but Thranduil stops her with a raised hand. "And where do you think you are going?"

Tauriel blanks, a frown creasing her brow and her gaze flitting to the Dwarves and Bard, the blush of embrassment creeping up her spine as Balin enters the chamber and takes in the scene from Fili's side. "With you, Your Grace." As an Elf, she does not stutter, but the surprise behind it is clear. Thranduil makes a noise, high and cold, something that might have been a laugh and yet no mirth he holds.

"I think not." He does not look at her. His words slice through the hall, through her gut. "I would not see you in my Kingdom for all the gold under this mountain - my sentiment has always given me pause to care for you as kin, but you have shown how worthy you find it. Reward love with humiliation. Trust with disloyalty. Position with disobedience. It is the Dwarves you have pledged allegiance to; I leave it for them to decide where your fate will take you. Tauriel of the Woodland Realm, I name you _Edledhron_. Never return to my borders."

Silence fills the chamber as a sharp sorrow fills her heart in the wake of Thranduil's words. _Edledhron_. One who is in exile.

She can never return to the brilliant woods, the thick canvas above with its deep shine, the starlight splitting between the branches. She will never walk the path of Mirkwood again. Never stride the banks of the river, Legolas at her back and a bow in her hand; she will never celebrate Mereth Nuin Giliath with her people. Pain lances so suddenly it takes her breath; her hand jerks out, palm finding cold stone to keep her upright. It must look like nothing to a Man, to a Dwarf, the barely there shake in her knees, but her entire focus is keeping on her feet. She thinks of her mother, her father, both dead before their time. Death is such a rare occurrence for Elves, only coming through blade and battle. Neither sickness nor poison nor age touching even the weakest of their kind. They do not wither. She will live for centuries more and without a home? What will she do? Where would she go?

Erebor was no place for an Elf.

The scrape of a stone chair against polished marble yanks her from her reverie. Through the blurred glaze of burning unshed tears, she finds Kili is on his feet, mouth open in an unspoken apology The others look up at her with similar expressions, except Dain, who merely glares at the table with a clenched jaw. They offer her pity. She does not want it. "Excuse me." She bats at the single tear midway down her cheek and spins, striding out of the chamber. Towards where, she isn't sure, but she cannot stay with them, suffocating on their sad looks and the unbridled, open affection Kili wears. She loves him, she knows it now, but in the shadow of humiliation, banishment, she cannot stand the goodness within him.

Stumbling (for her, anyway) she moves swiftly through the halls without real purpose, taking random turns whenever she happens upon someone coming past. A few send worried glances - not at the obvious upset, but at the idea of an Elf wandering without escort. She cares not for the gossiping of Dwarves.

Slender fingertips find a door and she shoves it, stopping short as she finds herself on a ledge, overlooking the gates and the city at the foot of the mountain.

Dale is a beautiful sight from so high. With the sun hugging the horizon, its corridors are alight with gold and crimson, the stone true and sturdy, despite the still obvious signs of Smaug and his destruction. But it is not the branches of the Greenland, not the light of her lands, not the woods she has loved for all her long life.

"Amazing, isn't it?" a familiar voice says, breaking her gaze once more. Kili steps out into the dying light as it travels along the stone and comes to a stop next to her, his runestone playing between his fingers. "The view, I mean. I doubt there's anywhere else you might find one like it."

Gondor, she thinks. She has gone to the very tip of Minas Tirith and looked down at the Pellenor Fields and sighed. There are many sights of this world worth seeing, but she says nothing, only gives a small nod. Kili seems to absorb her melancholy, looking up at her as his hand reaches out to tentatively brush her fingertips, much in the same way as they did in Bard's home when she healed him. _What Grace has given me, let it pass to him. Let him be spared. Let him return to me._ She feels the weight of it now, his warmth sinking to her bones, across her skin. She gives in, unable to hold her stoicism, and let's their fingers twine.

"I am alone." It falls like stone between them. "I have forsaken my people and for what?" She is almost talking to herself, angry and full of a frustration she has never felt before; instantly regrets her words when his hand flinches in hers.

"You regret your decision to follow -- the Company." To follow me, he does not say but the sentiment remains. She shakes her head.

"No. It was my choice and given the chance, I would do nothing differently." And still, there is the bitter thought - a lifetime spent in the light of Thranduil, given as payment for the love of a Dwarf and all without the knowledge of whether it was real or simply a passing intimacy. He was her light in the darkness, a blade in the shadows ready to protect her, she felt him as keenly as she would an extension of herself. Tauriel would not send him away nor part with him on any order but his own.

"We love but once, pledge ourselves to another for an entire lifetime and it is not freely given. Our souls are bound to it and if lost, we can choose to endure - as Thranduil does, as Elrond Halfelven has - or we fade. Some sail into the West and leave the shores of Middle Earth. Others cannot stand the pain and search for an end in the tip of an Orc blade; you Dwarves mourn with celebration, exhault in a life lived. But we feel sorrow and do not relinquish it easily. It makes us a cold people in appearance perhaps, yet it is only our passion, our fierce love, which makes us so. I do not regret following you, Kili. Never think it. But I loved the Mirkwood, the people, my King and yes, though you are loathe to hear it, Legolas too. And I will never see them again. I have traded one love for another. I cannot quite find if it was the right decision yet."

Kili is silent for a long time, frozen on the spot, so much so that he does not try to stop her when she sinks to her knees at the end of the ledge, her fingers slipping from his slowly. There is a song on the tip of his tongue about a crying Elf-maid and her beauty in a Green Lake, but now is not the time.

After a drawn out pause, he finally shuffles towards her, sitting down too and for once they are on equal footing. He finds her hand again and holds it between his own. "What does your heart tell you?" He asks, her hand somehow so tiny in between his own. She almost smiles and as the sun dies beneath the horizon, she turns to look at him.

"That I could suffer a thousand exiles and it would not compare to the pain of losing you."

Something flits across her face, as though she can taste the loss on her tongue and immediately hates it; it must motivate her, because her free hand comes up to his face, thumb tracing the curve of his jaw, the bristles of his beard the strangest sensation. And when she sweeps and presses her lips to his, he cannot think of what he had intended to say. It takes less than a moment to react, returning her kiss, deepening it and being incredibly satisfied at the surprised gasp she lets escape, her hand slipping from his jaw to his tunic and curling into the material. He wraps an arm around her and vows then to never let her go. His brother might not be convinced of their loyalty to one another, but this moment feels more real than any battle, any brew, anything he's ever felt. He would wager that given how tightly she clings to him, she feels much of the same.

Breaking away, he presses a kiss to her knuckles and smiles warmly. "I could build you a house in the trees, if you'd like," he says quietly, thumbs brushing over her skin in small circles, as though she were the most precious thing in the world. She laughs, almost, and leans in to set her cheek against his shoulder.

"Perhaps. I do not think your brother would care for me to drag you out of the mountains." She sighs sadly into the crook of his neck, fighting true tears and deep sorrow. "I will miss the Woodland."

"You will not always be gone. I believe you will see it again before the end of all things." Thick fingertips wind through her hair, the strands untangling under his light touch, and as he thinks about kissing her again, the stone door behind them moves, footsteps skittering to a soft halt.

Tauriel picks her head up much to his dismay, but does not drop his hand, and turns to their intruder - a rather flustered looking Balin, a Dwarf she did not recognise but thought might be named Haman following closely behind. He was shorter than the old warrior, with an intricately braided, bright orange beard, and his face was still sharp with youth; his eyes locked on the Elf and did not stray, his look guarded and suspicious. Not all who came upon her were as the Company: accepting, even displaying a begrudging respect. Most still held a deep distrust, one that did not fade in the wake of the battle.

"Kili," Balin stutters, the surprise at their closeness evident, "You're needed below. Something about 'bloody arrows' or the sort."

The younger Dwarf nods and stands, disentangling himself from her with a sorry look. After a moment's hesitation, he bends and kisses the top of her head, murmuring that he will not be long, and follows after Haman into the mountain. Balin, however, does not leave. Does not speak, either, until she looks up at him from the ledge. "

Not thinking of shuffling off, are you? Put a mighty amount of effort in staying alive this past month, I'd hate for it to end so messily." It is a good jest and well meant; there is a gentleness in his gaze that softens her heart to the old warrior. A small smile coaxes at the corner of her mouth and she shakes her head, declining to say anything else. He seems to take it as a sign that she will not be shoving herself off the cliff any time soon and turns to leave. Pausing only to say, "You are welcome here, Lady Elf. We Dwarves know a thing or two about losing our home - we would not begrudge a place beneath the mountain."

And then he is gone, before she can absorb the weight of his words.


	2. And On

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set a few weeks later. Thank you all so much for your kind words! I'm not entirely sure where this will take me or where I'm going with it but I've got a basis and am end result so... We'll see! Also, sorry that I keep ending on Balin speeching I just love the bastard and I think of all of them, he'd have the best friendship with Tauriel.

Standing at the gates of the city, Bard watches the small troupe - three ponies laden with sacks of gold, jewels and weapons, accompanied by four of the Mountainfolk (as the people of Dale had begun to call them) and a familiar Elf - descend slowly down the Hill slope and into the city. Reparations were more than enough, the desolation of Smaug slowly being battled with determination and fresh stone and the steady help of both Dwarf and Man. Already the Watchtower is close to rebuilt, the very tip of it stretching towards the greying skies. The shadow of the dragon no longer lies on the Mountain; and yet, there is still evil in the air.

"Bowman!" Bombur exclaims, clapping his hand on the Man's arm. The others, none of whom Bard recognised, nod but offer no other sign of greeting and splinter off to search for ale and a meal. Bombur sets about the ponies and Tauriel rests her palm over her heart and tilts her head towards him.

"You seem happier than the last time we spoke," he says with a smile, guiding the two of them through the arches and towards the Pavilion, where the King's landing and what was left of the adjacent halls resided. They speak at length of Erebor and the King Under the Mountain, of Dale and it's development, and even of his children. Sigrid, he informs her, has been ensnared by the Elven healing tents, determined to play doctor to all and sundry. It is a focus he has rarely seen, he admits, and adds how proud he is of her. The two youngest seem to be happy that it's over, but Bain has spoken his piece concerning his desire to be a man of the King's Guard when it comes into fashion. Not that Bard thinks on himself as such, even if the people of the city see fit.

"Will you come to the celebration tonight? It is, in part, being held in your honour. I am told there is to be forty barrels of wine and fifty more of ale." Tauriel lets slip a sly grin, one he returns, as Bombur gives a hearty 'hear hear!' from the far stable.

Bard shakes his head. "I cannot say, my lady. But I know my daughter does wish to see the wonders of Erebor, perhaps she might convince me. It seems quite uncouth of me to refuse such an offer of friendship, regardless." He will go, he has already decided, if only not to put the newly found friendship with the Dwarves at risk; Sigrid, he suspects, has other motivations for wanting to go, but as a father, he cannot bring himself to speculate. "Are you not returning to your homeland?"

Tauriel flinches and were he not so close and paying attention, he would not have seen it. Elves. So very clever at hiding themselves away. "No," she says slowly, as if drawing out the word and trying to see how it tastes. "Not when there is so much work to be done." It is a lie. A soft one, and one Bard will not linger on, but a lie nonetheless. _Her reasons are her own, and nothing to do with me_.

Bard smiles again, "Then I look forward to seeing you at the feast. No doubt it will be pleasant to have someone my own height to talk with - my back breaks enough as it is lifting the stone." It is almost worth having been lied to, if only for the strange warmth that fills his heart at the sound of her laughter - a tinkering, light sound that feels much the same as a fresh, cool breeze on a summer night, or birdsong in the brand new hours of the day. The Eldar will never stop surprising him. How so much love in a laugh can come from such a cold race, he will never know, but appreciates it all the same.

"Oh, quite, Master Bowman," Bombur laughs goodnaturedly and waves, turning once the ponies are secured and shuffling off in the direction his kin. Tauriel nods as he passes and the almost affectionate look in the Dwarf's eyes as he returns the farewell does not escape the King of Dale.

"They have grown fond of you," he says once alone.

"I would not say overtly so and certainly not by all, but I am at the request of the King." A rare, conspiratorial smile. "There isn't much they can do about it." Were she anyone else, Bard might say the slim Elf was blushing when she spoke. Perhaps she did not remember, but he had been there when the Company had come across the sorrowful sight of a motionless, almost cold Kili and the hunched form of the former Captain of the Mirkwood Guard, hands clasped tightly together. She had been a picture of grief and ruin, her hands caked in blood in an apprently fruitless attempt to stem the bleeding; they might have been Beren and Luthien, the deep tragedy cutting all those who looked upon them. Fortunately, Oin had seen hope where all others could not and it had taken Dwalin and Balin both to pull the She-Elf away from the wounded Prince.

"Even still." The matter is put to rest when someone requests his presence, reminding him that there is much to be done and most of it will be funded from the chests once lashed to the backs of Bombur's ponies. Bard bids the Elf farewell and leaves with Ryon, a scholarly looking boy who struggles to carry the small loads given to him but does not complain nor stop. A worthy squire, she thinks.

Tauriel, left to her own devices, contemplates returning to the mountain, dismissing the idea in a heartbeat. The walls of the Undercity were too close, too oppressive and new, strange in a way she had never felt in the places of Men; there was a sense of unwelcomness no amount of invitations and fair hands could quell. Balin had been kind to her, showing her the main passages, while Kili showed her the outer ledges and short cuts through the towering halls to the battlements that overlooked the Ravenhill and the River Running. For mainly selfish reasons, she was sure, because most of their time spent together under the starlight in the hidden places did not involve talking. Not that she minded. Erebor was still not her home, but it was as good as any other place.

Some time later, when the sun had begun to dwindle and set, she wanders back to the great gates, bow in hand, and makes for the oversized rooms she had been bequeathed upon her permanent invitation to the Mountain. Kili is conveniently near at hand, not two flights down, and oftentimes wandered and sat with her, sometimes talking and sometimes not, and she is happy with the company. Tonight, he would be with the King.

As his brother's advisor and right hand, there would be little chance of seeing overmuch of him at the feast, but no matter; she bathes and dresses in silks he has gifted, deep reds and intricately stitched, and sets the braids he has taught her at the line of her temples. Nerves have her fingers tapping, her insides twisting.

Unnecessarily, she is sure.

When the sconces lining the corridor outside are lit, she is collected and he looks every bit the Crown Prince of Erebor. Dressed in much the same colour as she is, he seems refined, a roughly hewn from the rock diamond polished and carved into true beauty. And he is beautiful, in her eyes; solid, set jaw, his long hair brought back from his face and set in similar braids to her own, a single thick ring adorning his right hand. There is a cloak of silk and fur pinned to him. True royalty, in every sense of the word. He even looks taller. Handsome does not do him justice.

"My lord," she says, dipping low and fighting a proud grin. He grumbles and rolls his eyes, greeting her with a soft kiss and offering his arm. No doubt he is the only Dwarf in centuries to do so, but the sentiment makes her gentle and respectful. Setting her hand in his, they leave and head for the King's Hall, to Fili and Bard and the newly settled population of the Mountainfolk.

Truly she has never seen so many Dwarves in one place.

Hundreds of people, men and women (though it was difficult for the Elf to distinguish) alike, all buzzing with excitement and happiness, brimming with hope and a real, genuine love. It was a sight to behold, one not dampened by the stares and glares turned upon her. She did not, thankfully, stick out quite as much as she thought she might, with Bard and his council and many of the Dale-folk being in attendance; there were even a bare few of her own kind, but she suspected them ambassadors of sorts for Thranduil, who would never deign to attend such festivities.

"See? Not the tallest one here," Kili whispers to her, grinning stupidly, and she nudges him and fights the urge to kiss him. Fili greets her with a kiss to her knuckles and claps his brother's shoulder, congratulating him on showing up with such a pretty lady on his arm. It's all charm belying the worry underneath, but of what she cannot discern. The Orcs had been driven off, back to Gundabad she assumed, and had not been spotted on the borders of the forest in the past few weeks, since the last of her kind and King had left. Yet still there remained a worry. A blackness had grip of the lands and did not seem in the mood to relinquish it lightly. Even now, though she was not Arwen Undomiel nor the Lady of Lorien, Tauriel could feel the shadow creeping into the corners of the world, still clinging the the hint of power and death left in Esgaroth; there are far worse things than orcs breeding in the deep places of the world, places she did not suspect would remain quiet for long. Gandalf had said nearly as much to her when he left.

 _Keep them safe, do all that you can. Let them trust you and hold your ground in spite of them, for I do not doubt many will attempt to drive you off. Hold fast to your love, my dear Tauriel, and your courage. When the time comes, you may need it more than any bow or axe_.

Wine was poured for her. She drinks it slowly and savours the taste, watching those around her swallow pint after pint, to much merriment. When all are seated and half wobbling, Fili makes a grand speech of declaration of intent, speaks of fine friends and new alliances, of defeated foes and his Uncle's dream. It is moving for most and disgruntling for others, but all applaud and nod. And promptly return to their booze and food and song. Kili even manages to sway her up for a dance, after a few goblets.

It is afterwards, when she is making her way back to the King's table that she hears a voice above the din.

"-- I do not trust it, not this one. Look at his brother - did you see thems braids, eh? Gone and near as bloody married an Elf. Disgusting, I say. You say. Thorin would be rolling in his grave, most like. Kin making off with Elves. I shan't be bowing and scraping to them and no mistake."

It comes as no great surprise that the speaker in question is the young Dwarf she had not recognised a handful of weeks ago - Haman, she remembers. She does not mention it, but does not return to dance and swaps wine for water.

*

"Thorin Oakenshield is dead, his crown passed to his nephew. The Arkenstone with it." Malice oozes from every pore, every rot-brown crack in the teeth, the watery white skin and razor cheek bones stretching and bending with no small resistance. The face has changed, is changing, with every breathing moment. "The armies have fled into Ered Mithrin, the Grey Mountains, and back to Gundabad. They have little strength left." At the centre of his attention is the dark, cracked ball propped on the stone altar, a beating pulse echoing through the thick stone and metal walls. "We must look to Mordor now and the fires of Orodruin, my lord."

A lancing pain shot through his head, forcing his hand to jerk away from the ball and his knees to crack against the cool marble. The voice, black and furious, wrenched his mind from all else, burned through his body and turned red, red blood into an oil that clung to his pale face. _Golog. Naldo._

"The Elves have gone back to their trees. The have not remained at the mountain."

Something close to a feeling of satisfaction fills him, but it is not his own. "What would you have me do, my lord?" The Black Speech fills his heart once more and Saruman the White collapses to the floor, hands shaking and will bending.

 _Look to the south. Men are weak. The horselords are fading_.

In the dark, he thinks of the brilliant light he was given, the shining goodness he saw within the world, his love of rock and moss and birdsong. Wisdom is a gift, knowledge conquering beyond all things, and he is the most blessed of all the Five. No ring of power has even given him pause, no desire to see the world twist to his will, and yet - and yet. Something has changed and he does not remember what he ever saw before.

Only shadow, only flame fills him now.

_Find the Arkenstone. Bring it to me._

"I will see it done."

*

In the silence, she is content. Warmth envelopes her, and thick arm would tightly around her waist and soft lips travelling the short length of her shoulder; propped on one elbow, he tilts and presses kisses to the curve of her jaw. "You must be the most beautiful woman in Middle Earth." She grins and turns in his arms, leaning up to kiss him lightly.

"Flattery will get you everywhere, Master Dwarf."

Happiness has never found her quite so suddenly, so strongly, not even in her youngest days. It is as the starlight: precious and pure, and entirely her own. The heavy weight of the word _Edledhron_ still sat upon her shoulders, still worked at her mind in terrible ways, and she would always long for the gentle rustle of leaves, thick and solid moss beneath her feet, but with such warmth filling her heart, still she would not regret her decision. Kili whispers how much he loves her, how beautiful, how brilliant she is and the words encourage both laughter and quiet gasps.

In the morning, he leaves before she wakes, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "All this sleep is making me lazy," she says through the haze and she hears his laughter all the way down the corridor. A warm wind sweeps in through the window and below she can already hear the aftermath of the celebrations the night before.

Men, women and the few children that were in attendance pour out from the gates in small, scattered groups; there are Dwarves behind them, laughing and joking together; she does not see her kin but they had retired early after a short, seemingly serious conversation with the King Under the Mountain. Most likely they had left then. It was not far to Mirkwood and they were on horseback. She almost winces at the reminder of the borders she cannot pass.

"Well, Lady Elf, it's time you saw the true strength of Erebor," Balin says when he finds her in the paths at the gates later. She had been collecting kingsfoil, though precious little grows in the slope, and contemplating a ride through the valley between the forest and the mountain, or perhaps to follow the river. The older Dwarf must have seen her from the battlements above and made his way down, determination molding his features.

"You intend to teach me smithing, Master Dwarf?" She smiles kindly and he returns it.

"Not quite, though that'd be a sight to see." He chuckles, gesturing before him to the mountain. "Some think it would be unwise of me to show you the Forges, but I see no harm in a short walk."

She nods and follows him, their pace a leisurely one and filled with talk, mostly his own as he describes the history of each chamber and hall. It is truly fascinating, the stories of craft and danger of Durin the Deathless, his sons and their commanders, of Thror who led the people of Moria to Erebor, the Arkenstone and the prosperity it brought. All of it enthralls her. Never has she been taught of other races to such an extent. She knew broad stroke history, knew where they lived and the downfall of some or other, knew the story of Smaug but was not in the care of Thranduil, nor even old enough to remember it as part of her own past. Dwarves were simply too greedy and had paid for it; they were fire blooded hounds who took what did not belong to them, barely better than orcs some had said. But she has never seen that. Always she has simply thought them proud.

At the Forges, he pauses. They are not alight, but the warmth is still there, rock and rubble still marring the wide chambers. "Kili is restless. He pretends as though he enjoys the courtly duties of a crown Prince, but I know that look in his eye. I've seen it in myself more than once."

The subject of Kili takes her by surprise, but she does not falter. "He loves the mountain. I doubt he would part with it so soon, fear not." Balin shakes his head.

"No, lass, I do not think he would so easily leave his brother's side. Not yet, anyway. But I see the way the two of you are and tunnels and mines is no place for an Elf, especially not a lady of the woods. Don't mark me wrong, you are more than welcome - more than most, actually - and the king does not forget his debt to you; simply, I would not see you suffer needlessly. If it is the woods you desire, tell him. The bloody jitters in him are shaking the stone, if you get my meaning."

A bizarre, sudden affection rushes in at her for Balin, hands twitching in a fight not close the distance between them in an embrace. She offers him a kind smile and hides a blush, unable to find the words to thank him for such thoughtfulness. The point has been made and it seems his piece has been said, because he ends with a huff and leads her onwards, cracking a joke about Dwarven women and the how the men are thought spring up out of the ground.


	3. Return of the King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: I've playing the timeline some - Thengel took up the throne is 2953, and Theoden was born in 2948, but I'm kicking it back by ten years to align with the events of the Hobbit (the battle of the five armies took place in 2941 and as this story is already set a few months later, it's 2942. So actually I'm kicking it back like 11 years.) Hey, if Peter Jackson can play with it, then so can I. Considering this story is also based on the idea that Fili and Kili survived... I won't be making any other major changes, everything happens as it should, but just for the sake of continuity. This chapter is very much a world building chapter, setting up events because I know where I want to go with it now. Thorongil will be making an appearance.

Three hundred leagues from the Lonely Mountain, a Man - alone, save for the soft sound of birdsong - gallops at great pace through the damp horselands of the Eorlingas: Rohan. Some miles behind him are a company of Men, from Gondor, his son among them. The boy had begged to ride with his father, but this was a mission of great urgency and time was not his to waste, the boy far too small to sit a horse with great confidence. _One day_ , Thengel had said, _one day Théoden you will be tall and strong and many, many songs will tell of your great deeds as king. But not today. Keep your mother and sister safe for me now._

Crossing at a stream, he slows. There is a wind about and it blows through the tall grass which grows in long stretches between the thick boulders and in sporadic dipping valleys, but it is not cheerful. It does not lighten his heart and hasten him home. A foul smell carries on the air, rot and split bone.

These lands were not ones he recognised save from vague snatches of his youth, though he has ridden the path many times; they felt cruel, ruined somehow, but by what Thengel could not say. He sensed bold intrusions on the lands of his fathers, not forgetting the news that had reached the fair shores of Lossarnach, the place closest to Minas Tirith and just south of the White Mountains. The Lonely Mountain had been retaken, the dragon slayed and the people of Esgaroth rebuilding. Whispers of great Orc armies being driven north to the Grey Mountains, back to the abandoned place of Angmar, were encouraging - but Thengel knew in his heart that which his father did not seem to wish to acknowledge: the fell armies had not gone north at all.

Urging his horse on once more, he crosses the last of the Eastfold in quick time, slowing only when he sees the jagged banners of the White Horse on Green.

 _Edoras_. His home.

"Open the gates!" The order comes from behind the large wooden wall, all along the battlements yeomen and Rohirrim alike come to watch their new King take his place on the throne of Rohan. All his life he has been bred for it, been taught by scholars and maesters and all number of noblemen what it means to rule. He knows what they think of his father, a man of little honour and even less regard for his people; Thengel does not think it true, but the squalid lack of anything resembling an army, his people left to fend for themselves and a prosperity dwindling every day told him there was good reason for doubt.

 _The line of Eorl will not fade,_ he swears as he slides form his horse and walks proudly into the Hall of his ancestors.

"Thengel! Hail!" a man both fair and tall, as all of the Eorlingas are, shouts as the young lord pushed open the massive doors to the Great Hall. He comes to a stop and bows low. "My lord." Rodrik is his name, Captain of the King's Guard and one whom Thengel has known since childhood, though Rodrik is considerably older. Arms clasp in a short embrace, dropping after a moment of greeting. There would be time enough for niceties later. For now, there is a more pressing issue.

"My father, where is he?" Thengel asks, a frown cutting his forehead. Rodrik grimaces.

"Entombed, my lord. We waited as long as we could, but it was time. No ceremony was given; however, the preparations were made for your arrival." Thengel nods.

"Very well. My wife and children will arrive on the morrow. We shall commit him then." Rodrik stays for a few moments, to tell him of his sisters and their fate, their decision to leave Edoras for the shores of Gondor. Unsure of what to think of this news, Thengel dismisses it with a nod and shakes his head; they should not have left, not before they saw their father guided to the halls of their forebears. Sadness wells within. His father was not a great man, had no brilliant deeds to his name or even a particularly memorable act. He was a small man, with narrow eyes and a too soft soul, but he had been bold and intelligent, if lacking somewhat in courage. Love was not easily given to Fengel, but loyalty and fealty required more than love - trust played an all important part, too. He was seen as greedy and easily jealous, bitter in strange ways, though Thengel knew he had not always been so. Still. If there was war on his doorstep, which he did not think, they must first rebuild and recoup.

He must correct the damage done.

*

The Ring of Power weighs heavy on his mind. A myriad of names flood his mind, Elendil and Isildur at the very centre of the flurry, for where else could the Ring have gone? Lost for thousands of years, out of all memory and thought, most believed it destroyed. Certainly he had thought as much. Having sent messengers - men already crippled by the evil that slowly curled around Saruman's own throat - to search in the final paths of Isildur and their return yielding no results, he is near forced to turn to other endeavours. Sauron wants the Ring found, it's priority above all else, but if there is war to be waged, they must first look to conquering what they can in secret.

And yet... If the Ring were to be found, there might be no need to relinquish it or its whereabouts quite so freely. There could be time. Time enough perhaps for the Council to -- _**no**_.

His hands shake at the pain rocketing through him, making him feel frail and brittle like a bird's bones.

The Lonely Mountain reclaimed and the borders of Mirkwood closed once more, the failure of Azog wounds deep. They needed more time. More men, more force. There was also the matter of Gandalf and his meddling with Thorin Oakenshield and his company, his unexpected investigation in Dol Guldur, his fascination with the Halflings; there was also the Lady Galadriel, whom Saruman had long suspected cared far more deeply for the Stormcrow than most would ever know.

Enemies lay thick on all sides. Allies grew thin.

What he needs most is a place of work, a place from which he can see all, a place he can stay close to the realms of Men. The Elves cared not for the troubles of the world and rarely looked past their own borders, they would be of little concern to the Lord of Mordor for some time. The Dwarves stayed shut up in their mountains, seeing beyond nothing but their own profit. No, resistance would come from the horselords and the proud people of Gondor. _The White Tower was stronger than their allies who lay west and it is there_ , Saruman thinks, _I must begin_.

A place to watch. A place to wait.

Isengard. The black tower of Orthanc.

Yes.

*

"Do you suppose I'll ever see it again?" Bilbo asks, looking up at the old wizard who strode on next to him. "The Lonely Mountain, I mean. And Rivendell."

Gandalf gave his approximation of a shrug, clapping a hand on the Halflings shoulder with a happy sigh and stopping in the clearing they found themselves in: the borders of the Shire. Beyond was Bree, and Midgewater, and the East-West Road that would lead the Hobbit onwards to the Brandywine Bridge, and eventually Hobbiton.

"I do not doubt adventure will find you once more, Bilbo Baggins. You have become quite the attractor of nuisance - at any rate, I'll be keeping an eye on you." Gandalf leans close, an unsure twinkle in his eye. It is not a kindly one, but does not quite pass into the borders of suspicion. "Magic rings are not to be trifled with." Bilbo attempts protest, but Gandalf waves him off. "Do not deny it, I have been watching since you came out of the Goblin Tunnels."

Bilbo blushes and sighs. "You needn't worry, Gandalf. I lost it. In the Battle. A shame, really." But there was something not quite genuine in the Hobbit as he spoke, and if the wizard noticed, he did not mention it.

"Indeed," the old wizard mumbled, eyes narrowing. "Farewell, my dear friend. Such strange creatures, Hobbits, but I believe you among the finest of them all and I daresay I have become rather fond of the lot. Be careful, Bilbo, for you are only quite a little fellow in a wide world." They part with a shake of hands and Bilbo returns to the Shire, not at all unchanged.

Yet there is still the smell of danger about, the worrying ides that perhaps that these lands are not as gentle as they appear. Gandalf unburdens his steed, Shadowfax, and makes for Rivendell at a speed unseen on the borders of Buckland.

He must meet with Elrond. _And find the heir_.

*

A lone voice breaks the high noon silence. Gilwen, seven years old, sings high and gently for her grandfather in stumbling Rohirric. She was a better student of Sindarin, common Elvish, and Westron, too, but it was forbidden, here in this most sacred of places, to speak anything but the language of their ancestors. Of their people. Holding her small brother's hand, she clutches to no one, holds her head high and with her dark countenance - the colouring of Gondor bleeding from her mother - she appears far more serious than Thengel has ever seen. Such a quiet child. Such an old soul in so very young a person.

His wife, heavily pregnant with their third child, bows her head to him. The others follow her lead. He does not want to be king. Longs for the quiet life in Lossarnach. But there must always be a Son of Eorl in the halls of Edoras and ere it shall continue; as they lay Fengel deep in the tombs, an insofar unresolved matter is settled: Théoden will remain in Rohan.

 _Rest now_ , father, he thinks kindly, a roughly calloused hand brushing the warm stone which held the King _. Be at peace._

"So ends the reign of Fengel, Son of Folcwine, Lord and King of Rohan."


	4. Hunting Games

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long to text you guys back, I was in the shower. Apologies for how short this is, too.

Ever has he desired to see the great, vast halls of Erebor and the long columns which hold it, the carven stone, the powerful and deep wealth of dwarven treasure. Such gold and jewels and precious things, the likes of which he never imagined even in his wildest of dreams, piled high up the next one, chest after chest, solid block after gold coin; it is inspiring and weighty at the same time. And for all his childhood – his life, truly – has been spent thinking on little else but reclaiming their home, now he is here it is… underwhelming. Kíli finds himself longing for the Blue Mountains and the woodlands which lie there. The thick oak trees and sea-green moss which glows in the moonlight; the familiarly sun-warmed rock, roughly hewn instead of the cool smooth of Erebor. It was a more welcoming place than the imposing gates of the Lonely Mountain. 

“We shouldn’t linger,” Fíli says quietly next to him, looking out onto the River Running with a melancholy neither brother feels prepared to shake just yet. Thorin is gone, and they both think on him with every footstep they take through the slowly filling halls of their reclaimed kingdom. It still smells like death too often, and the snows higher up the mountain are red-thick and stained with orc and man and elf and dwarf alike; too many shattered shields and broken swords, too many spent arrows which either found their mark or _devastatingly did not._

“Do you think it’s done, then?” he asks. There is a hint of younger brother to his voice, some shyness and worship. They both know what he means. _Will evil taint these lands again and once more after?_  

Fíli shakes his head and sighs.  “I don’t know.” There is bearing weight across the shoulders of the young King Under the Mountain and a part of him wishes he could perhaps help lighten the load, even by some small fraction at least.  “I don’t know anything except that if it – _isn’t_ \-- then we will face it together. As a people.” Fíli claps him on the shoulder with a tenderness fresh learned in grief.  “As a family.”

And then he is gone.

Disappeared with a parting nod and thudding footsteps, the very ghost of their Uncle, leaving his little brother to stare out at the city below and the slope leading down to it, and the way silhouettes moving between the two seem so incredibly tiny. Tauriel had left late in the day as the light waned, and though she departed not terribly long ago, he finds himself longing for her calm presence, to kiss her gently and then in no gentle way at all. _This must be enough_ , he thinks _, it must be enough if this darkness endures_. Something terrible and pitiless seems on the horizon and it aches in the very deep of his stomach.

A flash of lightning lights the valley beyond and black clouds roll fast towards the mountain.

 

*

 

She runs.

Faster than birdwings, surer than the fox; one foot pushing off the rock to bounce the other off the withering wood of a thick-barrel root tree, a splash of the river soaks into every edge of her boots. A rose thorn cuts her cheek. The tips of her fingers twitch and ache with desire to let loose an arrow and end this merry chase, but she resists, if for the benefit of stealth; after all, to end it now would be boring – and much beside the point. Tauriel has always enjoyed the hunt rather than the kill: what better prey than orc? 

There are seven, as far as she can see, a small raiding party by any standard, but there is something fouler about these lot than any she has encountered before. There is a warg with them, chained, and they move slower for it, a blessing and a curse; dawn is quickly approaching and Tauriel has no desire to wait the day for them to move once more, but their pace means she can spend more time listening. Tauriel hauls herself up onto a thick branch overlooking them and thinks how strange they seem, illuminated by the transcendent glow of the moon, stood in the middle of a moss path. How vile. Violating the forest with their very presence. They move oddly, sticking to the very edge of the forest, and seem unwilling to venture too far into the press of Mirkwood, yet still needing the cover of the canopy. A part of her is glad, as she has as much desire to be discovered by Thranduil’s scouts as they do, but it troubles her heart.

Why move so carefully? Raiders pillage. Raiders burn. These orcs move as though they are afraid to stir too much of the life around them.

“This is taking too long,” one of the ugliest creatures she has ever laid eyes on complains at the back of the group, his cherry-red teeth squelching with the effort of forcing words past rotting gums. “The others will be there by now!” 

The leader – Murtag, she thinks his name is – marches to the back and slams his massive axe into the complaining thug’s head, black-blue blood spatters every face near. “Anyone else?” A few short moments pass in silence and, satisfied, he takes a step to move on.

And halts.

Sniffs. Sniffs again. 

Tauriel readies an arrow. Draws. Axe leather creaks as orc hands tighten around the handle. 

With the slow, anxious tension growing neither party notices the first drops of rain until the crack of lighting sounds; it shakes the birds from the canopy and spiders crawl out from a knot of the tree in which she is perched. The rain comes so fast and pelts so fiercely, it as if the deluge is by _design_. The orc sniffs again and just as the forest comes alight once more, a bright flash lasting too long, his eyes find their mark. 

“ _She-Elf!_ ” 

And quite suddenly, there are much more than simply _seven_.


End file.
